


The Third Murder

by rocketpool



Series: Angels with Dirty Faces: A Noir Tale [2]
Category: Actor RPF, Leverage RPF, RPS (noir!au)
Genre: First Person Narrative, M/M, contains some violence, cross-posted from LJ, yep there's sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-07-30
Updated: 2011-07-30
Packaged: 2017-11-02 04:33:10
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,657
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/365005
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rocketpool/pseuds/rocketpool
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>An associate of Hutton's winds up dead, and Kane is called in to investigate. But Kane isn't the only one in town who wants to know what's what, and as usual, there's nothing simple about it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Third Murder

**Author's Note:**

> For the fabulously patient [](http://elebridith.livejournal.com/profile)[**elebridith**](http://elebridith.livejournal.com/), who does enjoy bribing me. Many thanks to [](http://neierathima.livejournal.com/profile)[**neierathima**](http://neierathima.livejournal.com/) and [](http://lucdarling.livejournal.com/profile)[**lucdarling**](http://lucdarling.livejournal.com/) for the read throughs and kicks in the ass. First person, Kane POV.

 

  
The phone is ringing.

It’s a little early for the phone to be ringing so I ignore it. _We_ ignore it, and adamantly. Enthusiastically. Hell, it’s damn near _athletically_. Even if I had a brain cell left to think straight with —cos let’s face it, any call this early has gotta be important and ain’t likely to be good— I would have to find a way to convince Aldis to let me out of bed. Considering he’s straddling me so I’m pinned with my back against the headboard and pillows, that’d take quite a bit.

He tightens around me like he knows what I’m thinking, fingers sliding over where I was shot as if I need reminding.

I don’t, not when I’ve got my hands on his thighs, looking up at him as he rides me. He’s braced a hand against the headboard over my shoulder, muscles straining so he can move slowly. I don’t harbor any illusion that it’s because he’s exhausted himself, more like he wants to torture me by drawing this out for as long as possible. Can’t say I’m in any position to argue even if I _wanted_ to, really.

Aldis is starting to tense, and there’s a tremble in his motions. I slide a hand up his thigh, drag fingers across his belly and up his chest to draw out a low moan. He begins to stroke himself with his other hand, and I let mine join his. I’m not much good for everything else, for relationships, but this I love. Watching him coil up and let go, all that propriety falling away and he unravels in my hands, spraying us both. And yet somehow he has the presence of mind to keep moving, still rocking and fucking himself into me even as he curls down and claims my mouth. It doesn’t take me long to follow suit, the world falling away, the worry that I’ll fuck this up, lose this, falls away, and there’s nothing but this, nothing but him and my white hot need.

We take a moment to breathe and after pressing his forehead to mine, Aldis slides off. It takes a minute to realize the noise I’m hearing now ain’t my heartbeat through the rush of blood in my ears. Someone’s bangin’ at the door hard enough to make the hinges rattle. Aldis sighs and leans over just long enough to kiss my shoulder.

“Go, work. I need a shower before I head over to the museum anyway. Jewel’s still learning the ropes.” Aldis gets up, strolling naked toward the bathroom. He gives me a stern look over his shoulder. “Try not to get shot this time.”

I huff, but bite back my usual reminder that it ain’t like I got shot on _purpose_ or anything. It takes a moment to wipe off and find enough clothes to answer the door with. “Alright, pal, I’m coming! Jesus Christ, give a man a minute to put on clothes.”

“Timothy said you might be… preoccupied.” Shit. Robert Downey. He’s an old friend of Hutton’s, and occasionally plays messenger. “I’ve got a job for you.”

“Junior, that you?” I say, stalling long enough to actually get my pants on. I hear him laugh —a good sign, considering the only one allowed to bring up the _junior_ part is Downey’s father, and maybe Hutton— and open the door. “Give me a minute to get a shirt and coat.”

“Don’t forget your shoes. It’d be pretty sticky without them.” Downey steps inside and strolls over to the kitchenette. He takes a look around as he helps himself to some coffee despite the fact that it’s a day old, cold and over-strong, and makes no effort to hide the fact that he’s taking a look around. My place is small, barely better than a motel room.

I shake my head, pulling my clothes on quickly without hurrying. Really, I want for nothing more than to climb into the shower with Aldis and convince him to stay home. “I knew that phone call had to be trouble.”

“You know, I thought it’d take a skirt’s touch to make your place even remotely domestic.” Downey sips his coffee. “Or classy. The kid’s good for you Kane.”

I grunt in acknowledgment, not about to point out that him bein’ good for me doesn’t make me one bit good for him. Instead I check my gun and slide it into my shoulder holster. “Where are we headed?” I say instead.

“Market Avenue and Fifty Third.” His voice gets tight, and I stop to look up at him. “Tim said to wait and let you see. He doesn’t want you biased. And he says you owe him.” He catches the look on my face and just shakes his head. I grab my hat and my coat and he throws the rest of his coffee back like it’s whiskey. “I’ll drive.”

The ride over is quiet. To be fair, there’s a few abortive attempts at conversation, but Downey can’t seem to distract himself from the task at hand now that we’re actually on our way over. Suits me fine. Staring out the window and watching the dawn light is relaxing, more or less. At least until I realize the reflection that keeps bothering me is flashing off a car behind us that seems to stay there with each turn we take.

It’s got my attention now. For a minute it drops away, staying gone just long enough I think that maybe I’m just paranoid. But I’m paid to be paranoid. And the car comes back. Glossy black, local plates, with headlights just round enough and pinched close to mark the flivver a few years old. Probably a rental. But it’s too far back to see more than the silhouette of the driver.

I frown, but don’t say anything yet. For all I know Hutton’s putting eyes on this that Downey doesn’t know about, and if Hutton is calling in one of the favors I owe him…

We arrive and Downey stops a block down from the action. I can see the section that’s been roped off even from the car, and the distinct lack of beat cops. Sure, there’s a few, but it’s clear that police involvement has taken a nosedive in comparison to my last job. Hutton must be pulling more than one favor out for this, too, cos as I get closer I can see Detective Riesgraf kneeling near a body. Chief Bellman always hordes her for the best cases, but there ain’t even a newshawk in sight.

Riesgraf looks up as we approach and stands. “Kane.” She gestures to the boys in blue to let me through like she’s been expecting me. Hell, I don’t think she’s been there long. “Mr. Downey. I apologize, but you’ll have to stay where you are.” Riesgraf waits for me to be close enough to drop her voice. “We’re thinking the time of death is at least four hours ago, but we can’t be sure until Glau gets a look at him.”

Now that I’m close enough to see, my stomach knots up. Jonas Johnson, purveyor of antiquities and other goods, sometimes above the table and sometimes below, was a frequent guest of The Joint for many years. He’d done some work for Hutton (all clean, of course) that put some very fine artwork in the best of Hutton’s VIP rooms. He’d also done a lot of work for the museum, which would _hate_ to fess up to how it acquired some of its best pieces. If I hadn’t already been pretty damn sure, there’d be no doubt left now — Hutton’s taking this personally.

“Jesus,” I murmur. The man took a serious beating before he died. The dirt marks and blood stains on his pants make me think his legs are broken, and it’s painfully obvious that his fingers are too. They left his face alone though, and they laid him out neatly with his hands on his chest. “Well, he didn’t die here. Was his hat next to him like that when he was found?”

Riesgraf shakes her head. “Over his face, which usually signifies remorse, but that conflicts pretty strongly with the fact that it’s likely he was rolled by an enforcer.”

She’s right, and it makes the knot in my stomach a little tighter. I walk around, looking for anything that might be out of place, any clue no matter how small. But there’s nothing here. The street’s too hard for tracks and there’s no debris, no garbage. “He was obviously dumped here, not dragged.” Movement catches the edge of my vision. The same car as before is down a side street, just out of view, but I can see enough to see there’s no driver in it now. “Question is, why here? If he died by accident in the middle of a beating, no enforcer worth his fists would lay him out in the street.”

“Fits the remorse though. Someone wanted him to be found.” Riesgraf kneels again and gently goes through his pockets. “There’s nothing on him but his wallet. It’s even got a few bucks inside.” She doesn’t sound like she likes the discovery. I certainly don’t. “What a mess.”

“We sharing intel on this one?” I hate to ask like this, but if I’ve got a tail she might be doing half the work anyway.

“Yeah. I’ll call you when I hear from Glau. If you hear anything when you’ve got your ear to the ground…” I nod and nudge the brim of my hat, thanks and goodbye, and start heading back toward Downey. “Oh, and Kane? Don’t get shot. It makes the Chief cranky.”  


###

It’s another quiet ride back to my office. I can tell by the look on Downey’s face he’d seen more than enough even from the tape line, so I let him be and keep an eye open for my tail. He pulls up in front of the building, right behind where my own car’s pulled up to the curb, and draws a breath like he might say something before just letting it out in a rush.

“We’ll get them,” I say, squeezing his shoulder. He just nods, so I get out. After all, there’s a lot of work to be done.

I try to make a mental tally of what I need. Whether he was doing any work, on the table or under it. Whether he’d done any work for anyone with questionable ties or goals. Whether or not he was in the position to know something dangerous, and if he was planning on revealing it. Whether he got any strange visitors lately, or any old friends were suddenly in town. Who was the last to see him (though for my money, I’d say the good detective would figure that out first) and who he was planning to see soon. There weren’t a lot of reasons to beat a man like Johnson, and fewer for killing him. Even with dirtier work he kept his nose clean, kept his word and kept his sources to himself.

Riesgraf was right - this is a mess.

I don’t want to be the one to have the conversation with Johnson’s widow, though I’ll have to talk to her eventually. Sooner over later. But if I’m going to give the police time to sit down with her her, I’ll need to start someplace else. I’m leaning toward his office over The Joint, mostly cos when I see Hutton I’d rather not show up empty handed.

I’m so caught up in my thoughts that at first I don’t notice my office ain’t empty. Considering the door is locked when I get there, I think it’s understandable, but no one would’ve blamed me if I’d shot them either. I’ll admit, I was reaching for my holster.

“Come on Chris, is that any way to treat an old friend?” It takes a second for my eyes to adjust to the dim lighting in here, but I know that voice. Know it a little too well, if I’m honest. Suspicion and nostalgia hit me all at once, leaving me standing there with my mouth hanging open. John Barrowman, god damn.

All I can manage is to say, “John.” I sound a lot more sentimental than I ought to for an old lay.

He steps away from the wall, his smile a little soft, his great coat fitting him even better than I remember. “It’s been a long time, I know.” John steps in close. “But I seem to remember your hellos being a little… friendlier.” He raises one hand like he might cup my face, like he might try to kiss me, but I turn away and head for my desk. It’d be too easy to fall back into old habits, into old trusts. Ain’t neither of us those people anymore, and I wouldn’t do that to Aldis.

“What is it you want?” I ask and take off my hat but not my coat and turn on the light. “I’m a little busy, and like you said, it’s been a long time. Long time since you’ve even been in town, John. Somehow I don’t see you comin’ back just to renew old… acquaintances.”

“A man can’t come to take in the music and a little culture?” he asks, the mild sarcasm an obvious dig. The man doesn’t even flinch when I glare at him and just sits on the edge of my desk like he still might just push everything off and…

…I’m not thinking about that. He smirks like he knows where my head’s going, like he knows the memories alone would get me hard. “You wouldn’t come to me for that shit, so why don’t you just tell me what the hell you want, or kindly fuck off.”

John snorts with a resigned sort of amusement. “Some things never change I guess.” He looks less sure of himself now, and maybe a little embarrassed. “Look, I…” He clears his throat. Obviously he thought he’d be on my better side when he got to this. “I’m in a little trouble.”

I narrow my eyes. This is a little too convenient, but just how he’s gonna slot into things I can’t figure. “What kind of trouble?”

“You remember what I do?” I just raise an eyebrow; of course I remember what it is he _left me_ to do, not that I was oblivious to everything we weren’t, everything I didn’t want him to be. But antiquities trafficking isn’t something you can pull off staying put, or even staying in the country if you want the right sort of reputation. “My last job went a little south. I’m supposed to be making up for it but I’ve got some very,” he pauses to lick his lips, “enthusiastic competition.”

John’s a lot of things but —last I knew him anyway— he’s not given to violence and murder. Still, his problem would fit my problem far too well, and I’ve got a gut feeling it’s just gonna get worse if I push him out the door now. “So what is it?”

“What?”

“The thing you’re after. You want my help, I ain’t goin’ into this blind.”

He smiles a little then reaches inside his coat and pulls out a black and white photograph. It’s small, grainy, and has obviously been folded a few times and probably traded hands, but I can make out a statue, probably carved from stone and probably not too large, though the only reference for size is the edge of the table. “It’s known as the Jade Monkey. There’s no provenance, of course, but supposedly it was crafted in Burma for the first emperor of Ming dynasty in China. It was made as part of a set. One still resides in some museum or something in China. One was given as a diplomatic gift to the Queen of England. And one was lost. Or as lost as things like this ever get.” He shrugs a little. “It changed hands. A lot. It’s the sort of thing private collectors wet themselves over.”

It’s the sort of thing that gives me headaches. “So what happened?”

“There was an auction. Private, quiet. Not everyone was pleased about who got the winning bid.” He slides the photo back in his pocket and shakes his head. “And before you ask, no, I’m not in possession of the monkey. If I had it, I wouldn’t be here.”

I scrub a hand over my face. “All right, I’ll see what I can do. But you best stay out of my way, John, and keep your head down. I don’t need you making me complicit in anything or giving me an extra corpse to deal with.” I go around my desk and make myself look busy, like I’m not just waiting for him to leave to fish out my bottle of whiskey from the bottom drawer.

“Yeah, thanks.” John waits a moment, then gets up and walks to the door. He pauses again, and says, “You look good.” And then he’s gone.

Damn. Why’ve I got the feeling he’s gonna end up getting me shot?  


###

I spend my afternoon on the horn, starting with a few of my less than savory contacts. Bindle stiffs may not get me answers now, but if the Monkey is still in play, and if Johnson was involved with something that deep in the black market, someone will know, and it’ll get back to me. Probably faster than Riesgraf knockin’ on doors and putting on the pressure, hopefully more true on top of it. His office is next.

“Hello,” Johnson’s secretary, a young man named George, answers. His voice is small and kinda wobbly. “I’m sorry but Mr. Johnson is, he’s… Mr. Johnson…” That’s all it takes for him to break into sobs, and I’m torn between feeling sorry for him and yelling at him to keep his tears off the damn paperwork.

“It’s alright, son,” I say, trying to sound soothing. “I already know. I’m Christian Kane, a private investigator working with the police on his case.” The kid tries to answer me, but he’s blubbering too hard. It’s understandable, but also absolutely no help. “Look, is there a good time for me to come by? If I can sort through some of his things, there might be a clue. Something you wouldn’t even think to notice, or that only makes sense with a little context.”

“I… he…” George takes a deep breath and swallows loud enough I can hear it down the line. “To-tomorrow afternoon. Whatever you need, I can give you tomorrow.”

I thank him and hang up, and scrub a hand over my face. There’s a whole lot of nothin’ right now, and if George is this shaky, I can only imagine how badly Johnson’s wife must be taking things. It doesn’t leave me a lot of options for what to do next, not yet. I could try knocking on doors, problem being that at this point, I’d be going in blind. Even armed, I may step into a steaming pile of shit and never even realize it until it’s too late. I’d really rather not get shot again.

My phone rings, and I grab it, hoping for a god forsaken break already. “Kane,” I say it rough, more annoyed than I should be. This really needs to pay off.

Aldis laughing at me down the line ain’t particularly what I had in mind. “I figured you’d forget about dinner. Be here in ten minutes. That means leave now, got it?”

Shit. I was going to have dinner with him down near the museum. That was before the job had come up. But hell, I’m nowhere. And maybe he can tell me something about this Jade Monkey. “Yeah, yeah I’m on my way.”

“Good,” Aldis says. I can hear the way he’s smiling, and it almost sounds like something else.

I grab my hat and throw on my coat, and hope to god nobody needs me for the couple hours I’ll be gone. Not that they won’t know where to look for me — that thing with the plate got a lot of press. (And I may or may not have made it clear to the right sorts of people that if anything, _anything_ , happened to Aldis, things would get bloody fast…) But I don’t like this, don’t like when things just aren’t straightforward. It almost makes me miss when life was a matter of taking dirty photos for jealous spouses.

I step outside and make a show of checking my pockets for my cigarettes. I never had taken my gun out of the shoulder holster, but I make no move to reveal it. I’m just trying to buy myself time to see if I’m still being tailed. Evening is only just starting to roll on, but there’s shadows aplenty and at least two cross streets I don’t have a good view of. Finally I pull out my case, slip out a cigarette and light up. I wait long enough for a good draw before I give up and just get in the car.

Those headlights never show up in the rear view either.

When I pull up to the side entrance of the museum, Aldis is waiting outside. He’s smiling, pleased to find me in one piece I’m sure. I can’t say I mind the way he pulls me over for a kiss when he gets in the car either. But there’s something chasing around the edges of his smile, something I can’t put my finger on. “Good day at work?” I ask. Maybe for once it’s something simple.

“Mostly same old, same old. Jewel says ‘hey,’ and that you need to show your face around the office a little more often.” There’s a little hesitation, and Aldis sighs. “And someone came in inquiring about Jake’s collection.”

Technically it’s the _Greco-Atlantean Collection_ , but that’s what the museum calls it. It was always “Jake’s collection” for Aldis though. What’s left of that plate —once they got it back from the FBI— and the other two pieces from the crate are the star of the show, along with a few other items that Jake had worked to bring to the museum before he was murdered. “Inquired?” I ask, prompting him for more.

“A gentleman was interested in purchasing it.” Aldis frowns thoughtfully, then shakes his head. “I thought perhaps it was another museum. I only took the meeting because I thought the collection could be on loan, maybe make it a traveling collection.” He pauses for a moment. “Jake would have liked that. But it was a private interest.”

“I’m sorry.” It’s all I can think to say. And maybe I should cool my heels for a little while before I ask about the Monkey. I pull away from the curb, checking the mirror instinctively and nearly sighing when it’s all clear. I don’t know if it’s with relief or frustration, and try to focus on Aldis instead. “Did you tell’m where to stick it?”

He makes a noise that screams _you even need to ask?_ “I told him his interest was best invested elsewhere. Ms. Blanchett tried to suggest the board would think otherwise.” Aldis’ jaw twitches a little with the effort of holding back his thoughts about the board.

I snort and shake my head. “Ain’t sure how you still put up with the damn politics of that place.” He just chuckles at me, the tension in his shoulders easing off. “Does Morgan’s work for you? Or were you wanting something with a little more class?” Morgan’s is a quiet little cafe, barely more than a diner, but the food is good and the coffee is strong.

“You know,” he says, looking at me sideways and the barest curl of a mischievous laugh pulling at his lips. “I almost want to say we should go to _Saveur de Vie_ because of how scandalous it would be to ask you about what _you’ve_ done today.”

I huff out a laugh just imagining the look on the other patrons’ faces as I went into detail about poor Mr. Johnson. “Morgan’s it is.”

“How was today?” Now Aldis is raising an eyebrow at me. “I see you haven’t been shot, but the day’s not over yet.”

I sigh dramatically. “No, I haven’t been shot yet.” I pull over across the street from Morgan’s and turn to look at him. “You really wanna hear ‘bout this before dinner?”

“What, so you can put it off and somehow manage to keep it to yourself and not have to talk about it?”

I blink at him for a second. “Darlin’, I don’t know what you’re gettin’ at, but I meant that not everybody has an appetite after talkin’ about _dead people_.” He seems un-phased so I go on. “A man was found dead. Looked like he was rolled over by a hard thug, and it was messy hell, broken and bloody. But he was laid out almost delicately. Far as anybody knows off the cuff the man ain’t ever had his nose deep enough to warrant that sort of treatment.”

“A man?” Aldis asks, eyebrows knitting together.

“Old friend of Hutton’s,” I dodge. I don’t know if Aldis knew Johnson, and the last thing I need is him deciding he’s going to help.

“Jonas Johnson,” he says, his voice flat with just how much that isn’t a question. So much for that.

“Yeah.” He just stares at me for a moment, obviously agitated and waiting for me to go on. “I ain’t got much to go on, Aldis. And what I _have_ got may not have anything to do with him.” I scrub a hand over my face. “And just so you know, it didn’t seem appropriate to bring it up, or do you want me picking your brain over black market antiquities that may or may not be gettin’ people killed before y’ain’t even had a chance to unwind?”

Aldis narrows his eyes at me, and opens his mouth like he’s gonna say somethin’ else. But he swallows it, and instead says, “What’ve you got?”

The man’s impossible. “You ever hear of the Jade Monkey?”

He thinks for a long moment. “I’m assuming you mean the missing Jade Monkey, one of three originating in Burma. There’s never been anything substantial, only rumors. Every once in a while there’s reports it’s been purchased, but nothing is ever substantiated, not even to the point of proving the piece in question is genuine jade, let alone Burmese jade.” He seems to look more sympathetic. “You think someone killed him for information about it? I’ve never even heard whispers about it reaching America. Most historians suspect it was destroyed, and the jade used in other pieces.”

“Fuck if I know.” I put my hand on the door handle. “Look,” I say, without looking at him, “just… be careful, alright? If there’s anything fishy, just call me. Or Riesgraf. Alright?” I don’t wait for him to answer before I get out of the car. I already know his answer; I can feel it in the way he’s looking at me.  


###

Dinner is quiet. Civil, yes, but we don’t make it much past small talk. Aldis keeps watching me, and I keep not looking at him. Suffice it to say, if I’d backed down even a little, I wouldn’t have spent the night on the couch trying to sleep. Knowing that he isn’t sleeping any better doesn’t do much to make me feel any better about it either.

Funny. The whiskey doesn’t help even a bit.

Salvation of a sort comes sometime after the sun comes up and the phone rings. Thankfully it’s the one on the kitchen wall, a little dented from being punched, possibly more than once, so the ringer sounds partly muted. Small graces, as my mama used to say. Chances are this means I’m working today in yesterday’s clothes, but if Aldis did get any sleep, I won’t be waking him.

“Kane,” I say when I answer, scrubbing a hand over my face in a vague hope of making me sound more awake.

“I see you’ve been working the late beat.” It’s Riesgraf, and sounding far too cheerful for this time of morning. “Glau’s got nothing yet, maybe a shiv. You got anything juicy?”

“Maybe. Just a possible connection that hasn’t panned out enough to tell.” I debate for a second whether to tell her about the monkey, but I just don’t know enough not to. “You come across anything about a Jade Monkey?”

I can hear her flipping pages, but it’s not enough to be hopeful. “Nope. We spoke to the wife too, and she seems to be oblivious to anything being out of the ordinary. The last time she saw him he was apparently happy, no unusual clients, no unusual appointments. She mentioned a couple of late night phone calls to the house, but the boys could only trace it back to a pay phone. I’ve got a couple people trying to determine whether or not anyone saw the calls being made, but I doubt we’ll turn anything up.”

“It wouldn’t be that easy…” I rest my forehead against the wall next to the phone. “I’ll be taking a look at his office this afternoon, maybe get lucky.”

“You having breakfast at The Joint first?” Her voice is just a little bit tense, and I can almost picture someone standing over her shoulder. “Tell the old man I said hello.”

“Yeah, sure,” I say. I wasn’t planning to, especially since The Joint won’t be open til after lunch, but I ain’t too stupid to take a hint. It makes me a little itchy that Riesgraf couldn’t point me to Hutton directly. The hell is going on down at the clubhouse? “I’ll call later.”

After we hang up I scrounge around my shit kitchen looking for anything that could qualify as food (or at least coffee). There’s nothing that won’t take more time than I’ve got. The coffee is so cold and stale it must have been made two days ago. At least. I thump my head against the top of the refrigerator and mutter cusses to myself. There’s no way I’m brewing coffee right now.

At least the cafe around the corner will be open by the time I get down there. Probably.

I do what I can to make myself look decent by using my blurred reflection in the side of the toaster. Christ, but I need a shave, and I hope the bags under my eyes aren’t as bad as the shadows make them look. But my collar is straight, and my tie is about as good as it gets without Aldis doing it up for me. It’s not like Hutton’s going to be expecting me in a three piece anyway. I splash a little water on my face and slip out, locking up again behind me.

It doesn’t occur to me to check if I’m being followed when I hit the pavement, hands in my pockets like I’m out for a stroll. Hell, for all I haven’t slept I’ve only just gotten up. It doesn’t click until I’m at the cafe, drawing the glass door open, the little bell chiming above my head. It’s not til then that I see the reflection, from the door to the window — black glossy car, too clean, round headlights pinched together… The flivver doesn’t stop, though, and turns the next corner just as I’m walking inside.

Sharon, the baker lucky enough to be on shift this morning, just sighs at me when I ask her if I can go out the back. I don’t bother ordering or even slowing down, not now. As far as I know, I may not be needing it after this. Hopefully it’s on account of adrenaline, and not being shot again.

I push through the delivery door into the back alley, slipping out next to a dumpster that keeps me out of view from the street. I can see the back of a car, glossy black, parked on the far side. Inching forward, I can tell it’s sitting just far enough back from the corner to keep from being seen but ready to pull out at a moment’s notice. I watch it for a minute, watch the shadow in the front seat that may or may not be a driver. And then I get lucky. He leans forward like he’s trying to see.

The hard part is getting across the street without being noticed. I chalk it up to a little more luck and an instinctive sense of timing. I dodge a bus and jog up hard on the driver’s side, pulling my coat aside just in case I need to draw my gun. I wait as long as I dare before stepping up close enough to the car to appear in the mirror, and by then I’m leaning against the car door and knocking on the glass. In the driver’s seat, a middle aged man in a plain black suit with wide gray eyes set in a pretty face and dirty blond hair that can’t seem to help sticking out in every direction, nearly jumps out of his skin as he looks up at me.

“Well howdy,” I say. I might grin at him, just a little, but I can’t say I do it nicely.

A particularly tense five minutes later, he’s paying Sharon for my cup of joe. I’m proud to say I didn’t punch him, or even start to draw my gun. But then, the son of a bitch was smart enough to show me his PI badge pretty quickly. I held on to it, and looking at it now I see he’s from out of state and a good bit north of here.

“So what brings you to town Mister…” I flip back to the badge, then hand it back to him. He’s looking a lot more steady now that he’s sure I’m not gonna shoot him outright or try to put the screws on. “McGregor?”

“I’m investigating a pair of murders, two separate antiquities dealers.” He pulls a notepad out of the inside pocket on his jacket. “A Mr. Northman and a Mr. Westen,” he says and glances up at me, watching for a sense of recognition. “There was some indication the killer could have come here, but it was more hunch than anything. Certainly there wasn’t nearly enough to interest the FBI in paying any attention to the cases. I got lucky at the Joint, which led me to you, and to the latest murder.”

I narrow my eyes at him. “Why not just introduce yourself?”

McGregor smiles a little. Another time, another place, I might wonder if he was attracted to me or if he just always looks that mischievous. “I didn’t know who I could trust here, and you’d have absolutely no reason to think I wasn’t some skid rogue. Not to mention that dalliance of yours with the museum piece.” He cocks his head a little, and adds, “You still have no reason to trust me. But I’ve learned more than enough about you. At the very least you haven’t been going about trying to cover anything up.”

“Hn.” I drink my coffee in silence while I consider. The license could be a fake, of course, but then the question becomes why tail me? It’d be better for him to steer clear, keep his head down, and do his footwork as fast as possible. Maybe two heads are better than one, especially if this guy already has an idea of what the hell is goin’ on. “That mean you know what ties them together?”

“Yes and no,” McGregor says, shrugging a little. “They both had business with whoever killed them. Problem is, they both kept it so far off the books I don’t know who they were dealing with. Or what they were even being hired for. I’m guessing whatever it was, they didn’t have the right answer.”

“Y’got that right.” This shit is starting to give me a headache. It’s a crying shame it’s so damn early, or I’d be chasing my coffee with whiskey. “Was there anything, anything at all, about a Jade Monkey?”

McGregor frowns and thinks, taking a long gulp of his own coffee. He flips through his notes, bites his lip, then flips a little farther. “Maybe a bit of jasper, but no, no jade.”

I sigh. “Course we ain’t that lucky.” I gulp down the end of my coffee and stand. “Alright, look. I’ll get you in to see Hutton. Maybe we can help each other out.” McGregor grins at me like it’s the best news he’s had all day, and I’m starting to think that maybe _flirting_ and _mischief_ ain’t so far apart for him.

McGregor follows me back to The Joint. The lot is empty, as expected, but I pull around to the employee entrance. I can see the chef’s truck closest to the door, and a few bicycles propped against the wall that probably belong to the wait staff setting up for service and Hutton’s secretary. Hutton’s own car is parked a little farther down, standing out in the shade by its dignified, sleek elegance alone.

Hopefully he hasn’t been waiting long.

McGregor keeps in step just behind me as we head in. It’s mostly dark, and quiet except for the scuffle of waiters setting out chairs. We wind our way back toward the stairs to Hutton’s office, which is on the second level. Most of that’s a balcony and a VIP lounge, but it’s quieter than the rest of the place when it’s open for business.

Not that we make it to the stairs.

“There you are,” Hutton says from behind us. He passes us, heading for what might be the direction of the kitchen and looking as immaculate as ever despite his lack of tie or vest. Come to think of it, he even looks good with the top button loose on his shirt. He glances over his shoulder at us. “Walk with me. You must be the sleuth they sent down from up north.”

McGregor glances at me sideways. Clearly he hadn’t thought anyone here had been expecting him. “Yes, but—”

“You realize introductions would make this whole thing smoother.” Hutton throws a Cheshire grin over his shoulder. “You’re pretty lucky our boy didn’t shoot you in the knees.” He pushes through the large metal doors into the kitchen, letting out the bombastic noise of his French head chef. The man is clearly upset, but not speaking English, and his soux chefs were cowering near the sinks. “Now, now, Reno, what have I told you? I have other business to attend to right now. Make a new dish if lobster won’t work.” The chef turns to him and says something in a slightly calmer voice. “That is what I hire _you_ for. I’m sure you’ll take care of it.”

Hutton shoves his hands in his pockets and turns right back around, leading us out again. My stomach grumbles a little, and I clear my throat to cover for it. “A lovely lady detective said you might want to see me. Actually, she said I ought’a swing by for breakfast.”

Hutton hums at me a little. “She’s got her hands full of feds now. Personally I wouldn’t be surprised if the sloppy bastards caught Interpol’s attention.” He shakes his head and his voice gets hard. “Don’t you worry about that. Not now, anyway. What have you found?”

Both McGregor and I shrug a little, but he seems more than happy to let me talk for him. “Not a whole lot from nothing. A string of antiquities dealers have been put down, and it may be tied to a lost Chinese artifact.” I don’t bother pointing out how much time I ain’t had to figure out anything else.

Hutton stops. “A statuette?”

“Something referred to as The Jade Monkey.”

His lips twitch a little, and I don’t know if it’s a good thing or a bad thing. “Figure it out,” he says at last, and scrubs a hand over his chin. “I made an introduction for him. A gentleman was interested in appraising a piece. A small statuette.”

“I take it an introduction makes it—” McGregor cuts off when Hutton gives him a look. “Right.”

“I want whoever did this,” Hutton says, but his teeth snap shut before he can actually say what he means. _Shot._ “In lieu of his… apprehension… I’ll take the figure. Bring me both and you’ll both earn a sizable paycheck. No need to awaken Kane’s competitive streak.” He’s obviously done with us as he rounds the bottom of the stairs up to the second floor. “Oh, and boys,” he says with a hard look over his shoulder, “don’t fuck this up.”  


###

The morning only gets longer. McGregor and I blow out of The Joint and burn rubber to Johnson’s office. I’m not surprised to see George is a bit of a daisy after his blubbering on the phone yesterday, but the kid is more with it today. At least, he’s composed enough to let us in and give the place the up and down. He seems torn, as he unlocks the door behind his desk, like he’s got to keep reminding himself his boss is just a stiff, that he’s not gonna come in and be displeased to find our grubby hands all over his paperwork.

“I… This will help?” George asks, fidgeting a little.

“It might,” I say, giving McGregor a look and jerk a nod toward the back half of the office and the corner of filing cabinets. I settle a hand on the kid’s shoulder and look him in the eye. “Ain’t gonna lie, I’m not sure what we’ll find or what we won’t. But we’re gonna do what we can.” George bites his lip and nods, so I turn most of my attention to looking through all the notes on Johnson’s desk. “Now. Did anyone interesting come in in the days before he died? Or a phone call? He might have sent you out or closed the door…”

George licks his lips and thinks, wringing his hands. “I don’t know. I don’t remember much out of the ordinary. All his business seems so exotic…”

“What about,” McGregor says, fingers flipping light through the top drawer, “something about a statue? Maybe a monkey?”

The kid keeps on with his hemming and hawing, trying quite obviously to remember, sometimes turning in place like it’ll help him remember. I let him be —either he’ll remember or he won’t— and sift through a few papers. They look like inquiries from the museum, and that answers that about how Aldis knew Johnson. From what I can tell, Johnson was facilitating acquisitions for Jake’s collection. There’s a few odds and ends, mostly notes to himself about refurbishing things for the Historical Society, or appraising bits and heirlooms for the up and ups.

“Don’t look like much,” McGregor mutters about the first drawer.

I’m about to agree with him when I find the actual scratch pad. I lift it up and tilt it around; seems as though there might be enough of an impression from his last note for me to get something. It takes me a minute or two of fishing to find a pencil, and another to lightly shade the page so the dents will stand out.

“Well now,” McGregor says, reaching his arm through the drawer and flattening some folders in the process. “What have we got here…” He pulls his arm back, and in his hand is a small key. “Safe deposit box?” he hazards.

“Train locker,” I tell him, and hold up the pad. I’ve got what’s probably a locker assignment and a time. “This mean anything to you?”

George flushes a little and looks away. “Well, er…”

“We don’t care if it was… under the table,” McGregor offers. “We just need all the pieces…”

George sighs. “When he’d… when he’d do work under the table, he preferred working by proxy. He thought…” His voice drops. “He thought it’d keep him safe.” George swallows and looks up again. “He kept a few lockers at the downtown station, and he’d leave the key taped someplace for them to find. Usually he’d send me to put it up, sometimes to pick up the packages that were left for him in the locker. I don’t know how the rest of it worked.”

“Thanks kid,” I say, already heading for the door. McGregor ain’t far behind, which means he’s thinking what I’m thinking. If there _is_ a Jade Monkey, the killer probably has an idea where it is, if he hasn’t gotten it already. “Hopefully we won’t need to come back.” I detour long enough to drop a dime to Riesgraf.

Look, it ain’t like I go _looking_ to put myself in a position to get shot. Maybe this way I can get Hutton his statue and the detective her man in one neat little trip.

McGregor’s just pulling out into the street, me right behind him, when the kid bangs on my window. I roll my window down a crack so I can hear him. “What is it?”

“I’ve only just remembered. There was a guy that came in.” He’s breathing a little hard and he tries to catch his breath. I watch McGregor pull over; he probably doesn’t know where he’s supposed to be going. “It was the morning before… y’know. He, Mr. Johnson I mean, he wasn’t happy about it. But the guy didn’t look like some goon.”

I frown a little. I really don’t think I want to know the answer, but I ask him anyway. “What did the guy look like?”

George bites his lip a little. “Tallish. Dark hair. Maybe a war hero, with the coat he had.” He didn’t say it, but the word _attractive_ seemed ready to jump out of his mouth. Dammit all. I really hope that doesn’t mean what I think it means.

“Thanks,” I say. “But I better go.” He nods and steps back, and I pull out into the street. I pull ahead of McGregor, and we scram out.

The downtown station is on the other side of town, of course, and everything’s bustling with people going to lunch. How McGregor doesn’t lose me… It’s gotta be a testament to his skills in the trade. I ain’t gonna think on what it says about _me_ that I nearly run over two old ladies and a baby stroller. Nope. But somehow we still manage to get there without knocking our skids off.

I’m in no way surprised to see Detective Riesgraf has gotten there before me. I am surprised that she seems to be alone, but she juts her head towards the doors as I get closer. “Don’t wanna spook him,” she says without looking at me, and I stroll on passed.

Me and McGregor stroll toward the lockers, aiming for casual. Since it’s lunch, the place is pretty quiet. Not empty, not by a long shot, but maybe just empty enough the bastard will get bold. I pull the scratch paper out of my pocket, showing McGregor the number again before shoving into my pocket again, and we angle that way. Part way down one of the aisles we can hear a sort of scraping, an unhappy grind of metal on metal, and then a hushed curse. We glance at each other for just a second before McGregor jogs between a row of lockers to the far aisle and we continue in parallel.

We move slowly, and as the sound gets louder, it occurs to me that I’m wearing iron and maybe I ought to have it in hand. I draw my gun just as we reach the row all the noise seems to be coming from. I peek around just enough to see a goon I’ve never laid eyes on before playing can-opener. He’s skinny, but wiry, and more than a little unkempt. Sure as hell he’s the sort that’d bump a man for giving him an answer he didn’t like, something the broken nose and raw knuckles lend credence to. A good half dozen locker doors hang open, and as I’m looking the next one pops open and he mutters more cusses to himself. Empty.

This guy must not have had the right number, or only remembered part of it. The locker number we have is for the row of lockers behind me. I glance back the way we came. I can just make Riesgraf with two plain-clothes flanking her. I wave her forward and step around into the row, gun ready. “Hey buddy.” He jumps like he’s been scalded, his gear clattering on the floor. The bastard barely spares a glance at me before moving to bold down the other way, which only brings him face to face with Ewan.

I think he draws the gun and spins on me because the past forty-eight hours haven’t been bad enough. Someone upstairs wants to add “heart attack” to the list of reasons Aldis is pissed at me, right under “getting shot again.”

“Freeze!” Riesgraf shouts from right behind me. “Get your finger off the trigger, bucko. You’re surrounded.” The goon puts his hands up, scowling, and the plain-clothes slap cuffs on him. They search him too, and one of them fishes a shiv that’s clearly seen a lot of use from some inside pocket of his jacket while another one finds brass knuckles in his pants. “Looks like our CoD. Book him.” She claps me on the shoulder. “Looks like you won’t get shot after all. Roll by the station later, we’ll need the usual paperwork. Go let your boy see you’re out of the woods.”

“Yeah, sure,” I say, and give her what I hope looks like the usual crooked grin. She huffs a laugh and heads off, so it must not be that bad. Soon as they’re all outta sight, McGregor and I hunt down the real locker. He slides the key into place and it opens, smooth and silent after that other malarky.

Inside there’s a paper grocery bag, sides bulging just a little. I let him pull it out, and by the scraping noise it makes it’s got a little weight to it. When we look inside, there’s something that might be a statuette wrapped tightly in tissue paper and newspaper. I rip a bit and peel it back, revealing some kind of green stone. There’s nothing else in the bag, though, and nothing else in the locker.

“You should get this to Hutton,” I tell him.

“There’s no way to know if Johnson even got a look at it,” McGregor says, shaking his head.

“I’ll pick up Aldis.” When McGregor raises an eyebrow, I say, “Museum curator. He’ll take a look at it and we’ll find out just what it is our man died for.”  


###

When I get to the museum, I go through Aldis’ assistant’s office. He’s not expecting me, and as far as I’m concerned, it’s better safe than sorry when it comes to embarrassing him in front of some big wigs. Jewel’s on the phone, muttering to herself and biting her thumb, so I just lean against the door frame and wait.

“Dammit, Kane,” she growls.

“What’d I do?”

Jewel nearly jumps out of her skin, yelping behind one hand. She makes a sound that’s probably cussing, and shakes her head. “I was just trying to reach you,” she says, her words racing together like they’re trying to beat each other out of her mouth. “Go, go into his office.”

“What—”

“That buyer is back, and he’s not being so polite this time.” She looks scared, and I notice for the first time how pale she is.

I don’t waste any more time. Aldis’ head jerks up when I come in hard through the door. He’s flushed, his jaw clenched so tight I can see the veins in his temple. “Where?” I ask him.

Aldis clenches and unclenches his hands. “It was the private… the one… the guy…” He closes his eyes and breathes for a second. “You know he tried flirting with me? Like that would make me… And he… he knew you. The bastard knew about _us_. Tried talking about the three of us…” His face twists up with anger and disgust.

“Where was he going?” I ask him again. I try to ignore my gut feeling that I already know who’s been here, even though I can’t begin to imagine why.

He looks up at me again, a little more composed. “When I told him to fuck off, he tried threatening me. He put a gun in my face, Christian.” It’s like he’s trying to look through my skull, trying to understand what he’s missed, what makes this make sense. “Who. Is. He.”

I wish I could tell what he sees on my face. If I’m really lucky? Nothing. I’m never that lucky. “Worry about—”

“ _Christian_ ,” he says through clenched teeth.

I just shake my head. “Where, Aldis?” Something passes over his face, but I don’t let myself think about it. He points.

And I’m off and running. The guy —if I don’t think of it as John, that means it won’t be, right?— went out the door that leads to a connected side office. There’s a handful of desks and three doors. If it weren’t for the tipped garbage can and mussed up stack of papers, I wouldn’t have known where to go, and I can only hope that the way they lay has any bearing on which way he went down the hall.

The rooms I pass are all locked and darkened. There’s one at the end with a door standing ajar, though, and I waste time searching a room full of crates and items being readied for display. “Shit. Fuck. _Dammit_.” The hallway is quiet when I dart out.

And then I hear a sneeze.

I aim toward it like a pointer during hunting season, wishing my shoes could be quieter on the tiles and trying not to think about what it is I’ll have to do when I find him. Cos it is him; it’s unavoidably him. He wasn’t the one to shoot Johnson but…

I skid around a corner. John’s halfway down the hall, already halfway through the fire escape door. It ain’t any surprise that we’re already aiming guns at each other, but I don’t even remember drawing mine. “John,” I say, and try to make it a warning.

“Chris.” He sounds about as confident as I do. “Just let me go.”

“Ain’t to keen on that, seein’ how you treated me and mine. Why’d you come t’see me anyway?” I take a step toward him, and he cocks the gun.

“I was in town. Thought a roll in the hay might do both of us some good. Never thought you’d be the type to get _dizzy_ with a fella.” His voice is flat, but I know that look. He’s trying to talk himself into something. “Besides. I needed you to keep that bruiser off my back.”

“Then what’re you still doin’ here, John?” I don’t mention that we’ve probably the monkey. I hazard another step forward, and he aims the gun a little straighter. “Did’ja think I wouldn’t figure it was you what laid Johnson out so peacefully?”

“I didn’t shuffle the poor man to his sleep, if that’s what you’re implying.” He always had a good poker face, but I can see just a shadow of hurt in his eyes. “I was just trying to get in on the meet so I could try get the Jade Monkey. I wasn’t lying about why I was in town Chris.” He lowers the gun just a little. “I laid him out so he’d be found. He was a decent guy and didn’t deserve being left where he died.”

At least some things don’t change. I try to keep the relief from showing on my face. “You didn’t answer my question.”

Now John just looks sad, his voice cracking a little. “Hope.” He lowers the gun completely. “Chris… Look. Either shoot me or let me go.”

I shouldn’t. I know I shouldn’t.

I lower my gun anyway. And just like that, he’s gone, the door closing heavy behind him. I stand in the empty hallway for a long moment before I put away my gun and walk back to Aldis’ office. My feet drag a little, like I’m behind the eight-ball, and I couldn’t tell you why. The cops have their killer. Hutton gets his statuette. It’s case closed, and for once I actually damn well get paid. I got no kick.

And yet.

I find my way back into Aldis’ office the way I left. The kid’s sitting now, shoulders slumped, and doesn’t look at me when I walk in. “I couldn’t find anything.” Aldis nods a little. He glances up at me, and opens his mouth. But he just sighs. “Look… whatever this was, it ain’t to do with the monkey.”

Aldis looks up at me now. “You caught the bastard? I mean, the other one.”

I smile a little and sit on the edge of his desk. “Detective Riesgraf pinched him just before I came over here. Never even knew your girl was tryin’ to call me.” I can see I have his full attention now, the question written all over the kid’s face before it ever gets to his lips. “Yeah, we found it. Or, well. What’s _supposed_ to be it. You up to takin’ a look at it for Hutton?”

He grins now, my sins forgotten. At least for the moment. “Like you’ve even got to ask. Let me just tell Jewel.” Aldis pauses, and cocks his head. “And would you look at that. You really _didn’t_ get shot. What is the world coming to?”  


###

For the first time in the past couple of days, Aldis and I are quiet without being tense. His hand rests on my knee as I drive and he stares out the window. It’s all almost even relaxing in the warm afternoon sunlight. Really, I’d just like to go home, lay the kid out and make it all up to him. Instead I pull up in front of The Joint. Me and Aldis climb out, and I toss my keys to the valet, Will.

“Mr. H is waiting for you in his office, Mr. K,” he says as he climbs in.

I tug my hat at him as he pulls off, and Aldis drags me into the place by the elbow, his small bag of gear in the other hand. “Impatient, are we?” He throws a look at me over his shoulder, and possibly goes faster. The kid doesn’t even wait for the maitre d’ to wave us on before he’s already cutting around to the hallway and heading for the stairs, dodging around waiters and performers with little regard for whether I might crash into them behind him. (At least it only happens once… Ain’t ever seen a waiter bend and twist like that, but somehow the man keeps his tray balanced.) When we finally get up to the door at the top of the stairs, Aldis barely has his hand in the air to knock before it’s opening to reveal Downey smirking at us. Past him we can see Hutton and McGregor standing near the mini bar looking considerably more serious.

“If you were any more enthusiastic about it,” he says, chuckling as he steps back, “we’d have heard you walking through the door.”

“Ya prolly would’ve heard him all the way over from the museum,” I mutter, winking, and get an elbow to the ribs for my trouble.

“Is that…?” Aldis only half glances at Hutton before going straight to the big desk at the back. I see now that’s where the bag is. Aldis turns to Hutton completely now, and asks, “May I?”

Hutton nods, and Aldis begins pulling the statuette out. I let Downey pour me a drink while I take my jacket off and watch Aldis fuss with the desk lights and pull out his tools. Hutton does his best not to hover and ends up pacing between the desk and the mini bar, and hitting his whiskey a little hard. Finally Aldis peels away the wrapping, and even I gotta confess, that monkey is awfully impressive.

I think all of us are holding our breath, especially once Aldis hums to himself a little and frowns. He tilts the statue differently under the light, and grabs one of his lenses. Then he swaps lenses and tilts it differently. I can see his jaw tightening, and he sets the statue down before he fishes in his bag for a swab and some kind of liquid. I’m not sure what that stuff does, but Aldis’ shoulders sag.

“It isn’t jade,” he says, voice dark. “It’s probably nephrite, maybe treated with heat, but definitely treated with bleach.” The kid licks his lips and rubs the bridge of his nose, swallowing back how upset he is. “The craftsmanship is superb. Whoever made it studied one of the two existing Jade Monkeys in detail, and… Unless you had the right training, you’d never know the difference.”

My stomach flips a little. I don’t like where this is going even a little. “Someone like Johnson?”

Aldis nods. “He’d wise up as quickly as I did.”

McGregor frowns. “But our goon killed his way through three different guys… You figure he was just trying to get the answer he wanted?”

“Yeah,” I say. “Bet his boss ain’t gonna be happy to discover this whole mess is over a fraud. The guy needed someone to validate the statue or he’d get the red-light.” I couldn’t help thinking of John, and what he said when he came to see me. He’d known.

The bastard had known all along that the statue wasn’t real. But then why…

The phone by the door rings. Downey’s there in two strides. “Yes… yes, he’s… I see.” He pauses for a long moment, listening. “Right. I’m sure he’ll be on his way.” Downey hangs the phone up a little forcefully and sighs before he turns around. “It seems there’s been another theft at the museum.”

Aldis looks at me, but I don’t acknowledge him. “What was taken?”

“That’s the thing, only one piece. A vase from the Greco-Atlantean Collection.”

The realization hit me like a freight train. John knew, had always known, and used me. The son of a bitch. The son of a fucking _bitch_ used me to keep his competition from getting the same damn idea. I resist the urge to scrub a hand over my face. There’s still something missing, something we don’t know. Why that collection? Just chance?

No… no, John had known about Aldis, about us. He wasn’t just keeping the goon off my back; he’d been keeping _me_ out of his way. He knew something about that collection in particular that would ensure he was giving his employer something true blue, and worth just as much. But who had he been working for? What made _this_ collection so special?

…The Nazis couldn’t possibly be right… could they?

I can tell by the look on Aldis’ face that he’s taking this about as personally as it gets. There’s no keeping him out of whatever the hell this shindig is, not now. I think if I even tried, he'd shoot me. Hell, I'm starting to wish someone had.

I grab my coat, throw back the rest of my drink, and head toward the door. Apparently, my day ain’t over yet.  



End file.
